The Case of the Mudlark Boys
by bigfatgoth
Summary: The sad truth about the lives of the Baker Street Irregulars.
1. Chapter 1

I have always been rather fond of Christmas, and look forward to the season every year with gladness. This year was no different, and though the weather outside was cold and grey, I enjoyed myself by the fir, with a good book and a glass of port. My companion, however, was not of the same feeling. Holmes did not dislike Christmas per se, and though not a religious man, he did still like to uphold the social graces of the season. However, as a student of the behaviour of folk and their routines, he found it rather unsettling that a time of year could elicit such a change in them. His logical mind found little comfort in being wished seasons greetings by a perfect stranger. However, over the last two days his mood had been more sour than usual.

For this reason, and the weather, for Holmes was not entirely well having had a heavy cold, he ventured out little. I had some little work, as the winter had brought with it the usual bouts of 'flus and fevers, but was this evening relaxing with my glass. Holmes lay on the chaise covered with a blanket.

"Would you like some supper, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Hudson walked in from the landing holding a tray.

"That would be most welcome, Mrs Hudson, thank you,"

"Mr Holmes?" she asked, crossing to the table and setting down her tray.

Holmes said nothing. I turned to him, and he looked back at me with pursed lips.

"Really, Holmes!" I said. "No, thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson poured my soup into a owl as I went to the table. I thanked her and she widened her eyes at me, looking over to Holmes. I nodded, and she smiled and left.

I drew a deep breath as I prepared to speak.

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?"

He ignored me also, which angered me. I paused for a moment, and then turned to my professional mentality.

"Your behaviour leads me to believe that something is wrong, Holmes."

Holmes let out a noise; half grumble, half grunt. He said nothing more.

"I shall consider myself privileged to be worthy of response."

"You may consider as you please!" Holmes leapt up, and ran off to his room, pulling behind him a trail of blankets.

I continued with my supper. I might have been hurt at this exchange, but it was fleeting. I was well used to Holmes' behaviour by now. I knew that whatever his annoyance, it was not with me. He was not normally so snappish, however, and this concerned me. He had solved several cases of late, and so his mental state was unlikely to have been caused by the lack of mental activity that so often plunged him into a black depression. Indeed, he had been visited by Wiggins a few days ago, and I thought that he might be involved in a case that he did not wish to share with me. His physical health was much improved, after his having exhausted himself by working twenty hour days through a heavy cold, and for once he was eating properly. I had checked his supplies of cocaine and morphine, but found nothing untoward. Indeed, his behaviour was very different now to that which came over him when he indulged these vices.

There was little point trying to reason with him in this mood, so I finished my supper, and my book, before retiring.

* * *

I woke very early the next morning, and received the fright of my life when I saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on my chest of drawers, not three feet away.

"Sorry, Watson."

"Holmes! Good God, have you been there all night?"

"No."

"What is the matter? Have we a case?"

"No."  
"Are you ill?"  
"No."  
I looked at my watch. "Then what on earth are you doing?"

"The missing boy."

I thought for a moment. It was still early and my wits were not yet fully awakened.  
"Missing boy?"

Holmes stared at me intently, surprised that I did not know what he was talking about.

I looked at him, much concerned.

Holmes sighed and grabbed at a bunch of newspapers he had placed beside him, thrusting them towards me. I sat up and looked at them. Some had been screwed up and then very carefully pressed flat. As I read, Holmes stared at me in anticipation.

I read hastily, and met Holmes' eyes with a sympathetic smile. This seemed to annoy him, though he did not say so. The articles were over six months old, from the previous summer, relating to a boy who had been found drowned in the Thames. The articles did not suggest the foul play that I had expected, since it seemed so important to Holmes, and a drowning was unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence. I was confused.

"You do not remember?"

I thought carefully and I did recall him mentioning such an event. However I was sure it was only in passing.

"I think you may have mentioned it at the time. Has something happened, Holmes?"

"Three days ago I was visited by Wiggins,"  
"Yes, I remember."

"Do you remember the case of the Leeds ironmonger?"

"Indeed, yes."

"Last summer?"  
"Yes."  
"The irregulars were of great help to us in that affair, Watson."

"Indeed."  
"I have been informed that the boy in question here was Thomas Pike, known as Pikey, one of the Baker Street Irregulars."

"Ah." However I was still not completely enlightened, as sadly, this was not the first time we had heard of the death of one of our band.

Holmes hung his head. "I have reason to believe that he died while conducting business for me."

"My dear Holmes," I said, and stood up out of bed.

Holmes looked at the ground. "I may have sent the poor child to his death."


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes sighed deeply and clutched the pile of newspapers to him

Holmes sighed deeply and clutched the pile of newspapers to him.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

Holmes stared at me pleadingly. I tried hard to remember the case.

* * *

The previous summer we had been called in by Lestrade to investigate a series of rather bizarre deaths in society houses. Seven servants in different locations around London had perished in ways that could not be explained; in particular one appeared to have strangled himself with his own hands. I had conjectured and Holmes proved, using rather unorthodox methods and himself as a test subject, that it is not possible to strangle oneself. Unconsciousness occurs before death and would cause a man to lose his grip. We had managed show all of the deaths had indeed been murders, and were perpetrated by members of a criminal gang.

The case had proved very difficult to solve. It had been easy to catch those responsible for the murders, but their ringleader, an ironmonger from Leeds, was very careful to hide his involvement. His underlings often did not even know his name or appearance, and there were many members of the gang thought to be still at large. The gang members were infiltrating the staff of wealthy houses, waiting a few weeks or even months, and then stealing to order, particularly metal items, as were required. The organisation would then convey them to Leeds to be melted down, and return them to London as other items. The poor victims had been other, honest members of staff who had dared to interfere.

* * *

I still did not see what this had to do with Thomas Pike, nor did I remember him. Holmes turned his back to me and groaned, knowing from my face that I was trying too hard to remember.

"I had the Irregulars monitor goings on at the docks. It was this way that we were able to trace the route of the goods to Leeds. Thomas Pike was hauled from the river two days after we closed the case."

"I still do not see how this is your fault, Holmes. People are drowned in the river all the time. The terrible undertow can hold the unfortunates down for months. And why is it of such concern now?" I was somewhat confused, still.

"Wiggins has told me that in their latest recruitment of irregulars, they met a boy very similar, a little stockier and taller, and all but the same in face and eyes. It was his twin brother. It was he, Cecil, who informed Wiggins of the demise of his brother when he spoke of his uncanny resemblance. From the workhouse he had been apprenticed to a butcher, and so had been much better fed than his brother."

Holmes' eyes were glassy, and his faced showed a peculiar form of great upset and ire at the same time. "Whether he died at the hands of those he was following, by others, or by accident, it was my orders that led him to be where he was that night."

He was stricken with guilt. Many of the boys in Holmes' employ were in shoeless poverty, and it is a sad fact of the world that the impoverished tend to dwell close to the criminally minded. Their lives were dangerous at the best of times. But I had always thought that the Irregulars did very well by their living. Holmes' generous wages paid for many a hot meal and lodgings. And even in this late day, it was surely better than either the workhouse infirmary or apprenticeship to a cruel master.

"The fault was not yours, Holmes. In any case, punishing yourself will not restore the boy to life."

"It is not the death of this boy that gives me the greatest concern, Watson."  
"It is not?"  
"No." He thrust me another newspaper.

One of the headlines mentioned that three children had been pulled from the river, all dead, in as many days.

"Surely you do not also blame yourself for their misfortune?"

"I don't know, Watson."

I was a little taken aback. This was not a phrase that I heard him utter often, and certainly not in so forlorn a manner. He stroked his chin and stared, unblinking, into an imaginary distance.

I went into the other room, and Holmes followed and sat, cross legged on the chaise. I poured him a large glass of brandy, and he sipped at it. There was a knock at the door.

"Would you gentlemen care for some breakfast? I realise that the hour is early but your movements suggested you might be venturing out."

Usually, Holmes would either accept it gratefully, or mutter some words of disdain, depending on his mood. He did neither, and simply looked at me, as if for instruction.

"You have quite the talent for deduction, Mrs Hudson, we shall be going out, but alas, have no time for breakfast."

"Good day, doctor."

"Where are we going?" asked Holmes.  
"You tell me, my good fellow."

He shrugged his shoulders and sipped at his brandy. I resolved to try and shake him out of his brown study.

"We are going to investigate the matter, Holmes. You cannot lie here in a state of self-loathing. We shall leave in half an hour."

I flung his hat at him, and went to dress.


	3. Chapter 3

I took more care than usual over my toilet and appearance, for I was at some loss as to where to take my friend to ease his suffering. As a man of medicine it is difficult to be faced with a sickness that none of my professional ministrations could cure. And as both a soldier and a doctor, I knew well the feeling of guilt that one's own actions were associated with the death of another.

* * *

Despite his mood, Holmes seemed to be lifted somewhat, and followed me to town with more zeal than I had expected. As our cab passed the Yard and turned the corner from Whitehall to Great Scotland Yard, the public office, he took hold of my forearm.  
"You are truly a great friend, Watson."

I nodded and he gathered himself, ready to get out.

As we walked from the cab into the now very familiar building, I contemplated the situation. It was not often that Holmes, and much less I, actively pursued a case in this manner. Cases could be stumbled on in the path of some other affair, or brought to us by an involved party. The intriguing and the mysterious were much more wont to find us, than we, them.

I asked for Lestrade, for Mr Sherlock Holmes, at the desk, and a young officer went to find him. Holmes seemed to have taken much more of a background demeanour, and looked about him as we waited.

The Constable returned. "The Inspector is not here yet, Sir," he said. "The duty Inspector is Sergeant Mabyn- I mean Inspector Mabyn. I can fetch him, Sir, if you'd like?"

I nodded and he left again. His was not a name that I recognised.

"Do you know Mabyn, Holmes?"

"No."

I turned to look in the direction that the Constable had taken. There were various folk coming to and going from the offices.

"That is to say, I have not met him. But he is recently promoted, and a recent transfer to the Yard as is this young man, and is a Cornishman who has spent some years in London."

I smiled. He sounded much more himself, and his inferences excited me as always.

"How do you know this, Holmes?"

This was of particular intrigue, as Holmes had not met the man, nor heard him speak.

"The name Mabyn is a Cornish name. The fact that the young Constable, who is clearly a Londoner, spoke it with such a West Country lilt says that he has imitated its sound from Mabyn himself saying it; our man has a Cornish accent. He must have lived, at least for his childhood, in Cornwall."  
"His transfer, and recent promotion?"

"The Constable called him Sergeant by mistake, suggesting he is used to calling him so and has only recently had to change his salutation. Mabyn has been recently transferred; on the end of the desk is a box of placards and labels bearing his name, presumably for use about his offices. The fact that he is so familiar to the young Constable says that they knew each other before this and that he too is a recent transfer."

My eyes told Holmes he had left some gaps that I was unable to fill and a small smile lit his face as he continued.

"He has been in London for some years; most recruits to the Metropolitan Police Service hail from outside London, but a man from outside the force would not be appointed in as an Inspector."

"Bravo," I said, but I was, of course, waiting for the arrival of the man himself to see if Holmes was accurate in his deductions.

He duly did. He cannot have been more that thirty, young for an Inspector, and though he was dressed like a city man, wore boots instead of shoes.

"Can I help you, Mr Holmes?" asked Mabyn, addressing me. I stifled a smile as he indeed spoke with a thick Cornish accent.

"I am Dr John Watson," I said. "This is Mr Holmes."

Holmes nodded acknowledgement.  
"Inspector Lestrade has told me of your assistance to the Yard in some of our cases, and I had indeed heard of you at Bow Street."

"Bow Street?" I asked.

"Yes, I am only recently appointed to the Yard."

I almost smiled again. Holmes did so, but immediately his face hardened again as he addressed Mabyn.  
"Where is Lestrade?" he asked.

"He is over at the Embankment, looking over the works on the new building with some of the senior officers. I am sure he will return soon; there is little to see over there apart from earthworks and navvies."

"Indeed. We are looking into the matter of the three children pulled from the Thames."

"A tragedy, to be sure, Sir. Are you to claim one of the boys?"  
"No, I am investigating their deaths."

Mabyn cocked his head to one side, perplexed. "Investigating what, Sir? They drowned."

"Three children, drowned in the river, in three days. Were the facts of the matter reported accurately by the press? That they are all unidentified and unclaimed?"

"Yes, Sir."  
"That does not strike you as unusual?"

"Not especially so, Sir. Many folk drown in the river. They did drown, our surgeon reports all of them had water in their lungs, so they all were alive before they went in."  
"And the circumstances of their demise? That they occurred so close together in time and location, and nobody has missed them?"

"Plenty of youngsters in the city are without anyone to miss them, Mr Holmes. And while it is unusual for so many to occur in succession, I certainly would not call it suspicious. There is positively no evidence of foul play."  
Holmes eyed the Inspected, vexed. He seemed to have weighed up all of the facts at hand, as might I, and come up with a likely explanation. But Holmes did not deal in likelihoods and suspicion. He dealt in cause and effect, facts and evidence. I would normally have expected him to erupt into an argument with the man, determined to change his mind, but he did not.

"Good day, Inspector, and thank you." He nodded to Mabyn and guided me outside.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" I asked him.

"He has the worst kind of closed mind, Watson. He is concerned with using the facts to find evidence when surely it must be the other way around. We must speak with our friend, Lestrade."

"He is out, Holmes."  
"The footings of New Scotland Yard are being laid on the Embankment around the corner. Amongst the earthworks and navvies, I am sure we shall find him easy to spot."

His manner was still very sad, and his sunken eyes gave away his depression even on the trail of a case to one who knew him so well. He was now on a mission for personal truth as well as plain truth, and so could not pursue his work with the usual absence of emotional distraction. However, I was impressed with his new zeal for the situation and followed him towards the river.


	4. Chapter 4

We arrived at the Embankment, only a short walk away. It was rather cold, and we walked briskly. Holmes remained silent.

A huge chasm lay open before us on the riverbank. A small army of men swarmed like ants over mounds of earth and piles of bricks, pillars and platforms. Some were hacking with picks at the frozen ground, some digging, and others still pushing barrows around. Boys were passing bricks hand-to-hand along a line, and artisans took them, crafting narrow archways, which rose from the sodden ground like a sea monster.

Walking among the activity was a party of men in overcoats, heading towards us, for here there was a great ramp, rising from the pit.

"Lestrade," said Holmes. "And, if I am not mistaken, Mr Norman Shaw."

"Norman Shaw?" I asked, as Holmes' tone seemed to expect that I would recognise the name.

"The architect of New Scotland Yard. He is of some note, having designed various buildings about town. He favours a flamboyant style."

Holmes stood waiting for the party to move toward us. I regarded the work going on below us with some interest, but Holmes stared intently at the far end of the site.

"Fascinating, quite fascinating, Watson," he said.  
"Yes, Holmes. They work like bees; each with his own purpose, but also functioning together as one."

Holmes smiled; he had a passion for the habits of bees.  
"Indeed, but I refer to the construction of the site."

He beckoned towards the river.  
"This is land reclaimed from the river during the construction of the embankment. This area has been dug down to a depth at least eight feet below the current level of the river. It is a grand achievement of the engineering world that they are able to keep out the water."

I nodded, intrigued. But I knew Holmes too well. He had no interest in the river to this end; he was trying to distract himself.

Approaching the ramp, the party broke up and wandered away on reaching street level. A dark, thin figure approached us.

"Mr Holmes; Dr Watson, good morning! If you had only arrived sooner I would have arranged for you to take the tour!" said Lestrade.

"Good morning, Lestrade," said Holmes, and I nodded to him.

"It is a great moment in the history of the Metropolitan police, gentlemen. This new building will revolutionise the way the force operates."  
"Really?" I asked. I thought that Lestrade sounded very excited. Much as he was sometimes an obstruction to Holmes in his pursuits of the criminals of London, Lestrade cared a great deal for the public of this great city, and had a great zeal for having the ne'er do wells removed from its streets.

"It's wonderful! And did you know that the stone for this building is being quarried by prisoners doing hard labour on Dartmoor!"  
I smiled at this prospect and wondered if the inmates, some of whom undoubtedly had been put away by Lestrade himself, knew what they were quarrying for.

"We have been looking for you, Lestrade. We spoke to a young Inspector at the Yard who was most obtuse on the matter," said Holmes.

"What matter?" asked Lestrade, obviously interested.

"We are investigating the deaths of several children recently having been pulled from the Thames," said Holmes.

"Investigating?" asked Lestrade, with raised eyebrows.  
"Yes, Lestrade. In addition to the death of another child in similar circumstances some months ago."  
Lestrade looked pensive. He shot a sideways glance at Holmes, perhaps trying to ascertain what the great detective was thinking. "I am aware of the deaths that you describe. They are not my particular dealing, you understand, as they are not a criminal matter-,"  
"How can you be so sure?" asked Holmes, almost accusingly. His emotions were running high, and this was not something often seen outside of our rooms at Baker Street, and it made Lestrade nervous. He continued.

"I have taken some interest. My young colleague tells me it is a mathematical statistical anomaly."  
"A statistical anomaly?" I enquired.

"Yes," said Lestrade, chewing on his words. "We expect to have a certain number of drownings a year, and, plus or minus a few, and it just happens that we have a few in a shorter space of time than usual. It will even out over the course of the year."

This comment perturbed Holmes. "Does the manner of their deaths not attract the interest of the police?"

"What manner? They drowned."  
"There is a cause to every effect, Lestrade," said Holmes, sadly.

Holmes' circling the point of the conversation and manner caused Lestrade to look at me, and I nodded to him. Though I did not doubt my friend's assertion that there was something amiss in these incidents, I did feel also that he was reading more into it, and in particular, to his involvement, than was apparent to me.

Lestrade beckoned us to walk with him; it was quite cold, and though not actually snowing, the icy bite in the air made in uncomfortable to stand still out in the cold. We set off along the river in the direction of King's College. There were few others around because of the weather, and although not frozen over, lumps of ice from further upstream bounced about at the edge of the river.

Holmes tucked his face into his scarf and thrust his hands into opposite coat sleeves. He kept a brisk pace which I found difficult to sustain; my old wound gave me some discomfort in the cold weather.

"Are you all right, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes looked as pale and wiry as ever, but it was not after his physical state that Lestrade enquired. He asked nervously, as though he were afraid he was overstepping his position.

"It is my belief that one of the unfortunates met his fate on an errand for me. One of the irregulars."

"Ah," said Lestrade. He was prepared to admit their sometimes instrumental value in solving some of our most sinister cases, but I think Lestrade saw them as being a little too close to the class of criminal he was often trying to catch and did not greet their use enthusiastically. "What makes you say that?"

"This boy disappears whilst involved in business for the irregulars. He has a family, and yet is not missed or claimed for almost six months. He was in good health and in employment. Now we hear of three other deaths in similar circumstances, in the same area, the same class of child. And all children."

"Well we have pulled adults from the river, also, Mr Holmes."  
"The reasons that adults have to end up at the mercy of the Thames are for greater in number than those of a child, Lestrade. Where the death of a child is a tragic accident, there are always those who will miss him. When it is criminal, there are those who are guilty. Where there is no cry of tragedy, no witness, no clue as to their demise, and a pattern of misfortune such as this, there is something afoot."

Lestrade and I stood quiet. Holmes was quite right. On the face of it, there did not seem anything untoward in the incidences. But Holmes can see patterns and shapes in the darkest of tunnels, and I was sure to follow him. I found it sad too that if Holmes did not enquire about these children, it was unlikely that anybody ever would, and with no signs of violence or criminal act, the resources of the Metropolitan Police were far more likely to be deployed elsewhere.

"Perhaps we should return to the Yard, gentlemen."

We set off down Whitehall Place in pursuit of the Inspector.


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed that Lestrade had decided to humour us, and led us back to Scotland Yard via the police entrance

It seemed that Lestrade had decided to humour us, and led us back to Scotland Yard via the police entrance. Here men sat engaged in the drudgery of police work; the filing of reports, polishing of boots and brasses, and the turning away of the many who came by daily and tried to enlist in the force. This was a constant source of annoyance as most did not meet the stringent physical and academic requirements, and importantly, this was not the office to apply to.

We walked through the dimly lit corridors of the building, which, since it consisted of several buildings that had been joined together at various points in its history, was a warren of twisting tunnels and stairwells. It took about five minutes to reach the, no familiar, pathology office, situated at the Northumberland Avenue end. This was a busy, noisy area. Not only was it frequented by the unfortunates that lay enshrined here, but because it required ready access to the road and admittance for incoming carriages, it was sited next to the stables, a hive of activity.

"They are all still here, and since nobody has claimed them, they await either claim or removal by the parish," said Lestrade. We waited at the desk.

"For a paupers' funeral?" I asked.

"Indeed. They will receive a proper Christian burial, Doctor."  
This saddened me and I looked at my friend, whose face seemed to have fallen even further. Such an end was not fitting for an innocent child. They would probably be buried all together, in an unmarked grave at the end of a churchyard, with no-one to mourn them but the Reverend and his family. Perhaps even a trip on the Necropolis Railway. However, this was much preferred to the alternative, which was for them to end up the subjects of medical research. Indeed I am aware that such experimentation is necessary, but nonetheless distasteful.

The clerk of the laboratory arrived; a clean leather apron covered his morning suit.

"Inspector Lestrade, may I help you?" he asked, cheerfully.

It never ceases to amaze me that so many of those who work so closely with disease and death remain so very jovial. I did remember having seen this fellow here at work before, but I did not know him.

"Patterson, we are here to see the three children brought in from the river," said Lestrade, hushed.

Patterson's face immediately changed to one of great solemnity. "Ah, yes, terrible. The Thames Triplets, we were calling them, Sir. Until this morning, that is."

"This morning?" asked Holmes, sharply.

"Didn't you know?" Patterson asked, addressing Lestrade. "They brought another one in this morning."

Holmes sighed, almost aggressively. "May we see the latest case first?"

"He has not been examined by the surgeon yet, Sir."

"My friend here is an accomplished detective, and Dr Watson is an experienced surgeon. No evidence of any kind shall be harmed, and they may examine him on my authority."

I smiled at Lestrade; I did not recall a time when he had paid either of us so direct a compliment.

Patterson made a note in his log book and swing up a section of the desk, allowing us through into the corridor beyond.

In the first rooms, bodies that had been dealt with were stacked, wrapped in labelled sheets, five high. I always felt a sense of dread walking this corridor. It was very cold, constructed without windows or fires to keep the temperature low. Although in the company of my friend I had had cause to visit the scenes of some of the most unspeakable crimes, it was only here that one felt a sense of scale of the cruelty that existed in our great city. For here lay the battered, the abused, the murdered, collected daily from about the town. Bodies were kept for a maximum of ten days, and so the hundred or so here were just the most recent victims. The slabs held grim parcels of all shapes and sizes; men, women and children; even infants. The cruel master slain by his servant; the labourer shot by his master; the babes left forgotten in the gin-shops. Most sickening of all was the knowledge that few of the perpetrators would ever be brought to justice. And so my resolve to follow Holmes through whatever he should find in this latest case was strengthened.

In the last room two orderlies were preparing our victim for examination by the police surgeon. The child, a boy of about seven, was laid, still dressed in sodden, muddy clothes, on a table. Lestrade nodded to the men, who left us.

"Watson?" said Holmes.  
I nodded and took a closer look at the boy.

"He looks to be about seven years old." I looked at his face which showed sunken, dark eyes. "He may indeed be older; he is quite undernourished. It is difficult to say how long he has been dead; his body is almost frozen. I am afraid I can say little more without conducting a more thorough examination."

Holmes nodded to me and himself approached the body. He moved around it, closing in and moving out, pausing to stare hard at very small details, then stepping back to view from a distance.

"His fingernails are caked underneath with river mud. He has been working or living close to the river."

Lestrade nodded; this seemed to make the greatest of sense to him.

"His clothes were not made for him. They are very small for him in some places and much too large in others. They have been patched many times; some recently and some long ago, all with the same material. He is a pauper who is nonetheless looked after by someone skilled with a needle and thread."  
"A woman?" I asked.

"No. A sailor."

"How could you possibly know that?" asked Lestrade.  
"The patches are sewn roughly with thick twine; the sort used by seamen in the repair of sails. The stitches are long and overlap, though they are held very well and would keep out the wind. The work of a sailor."

"Conjecture," said Lestrade, unconvinced.

"Deduction," said Holmes.

At that moment a well-dressed gentleman entered the room. He hung his hat and coat in the corner and greeted us warmly.

"Patterson told me that I would have your company!" he said excitedly. "Dr Josiah Byrnes, Police Surgeon," he said, extending his hand. We made our introductions. He was a young man, and Lestrade informed us that he was a recent appointment; a graduate from King's College.

I expected some form of hostility that so often greeted us when in a situation such as this; in my experience police surgeons and pathologists are usually less than willing to have the involvement of any other in their work, let alone Mr Sherlock Holmes.

"Was it yourself who examined the other three children?" asked Holmes.  
"Yes, all three. Most sad," said Byrnes. "I found nothing of evidential value, other than to say that they drowned. Perhaps you would like to examine them yourselves?" he looked at both Holmes and I.

"Perhaps we should regard the most recent case first?" said Holmes.

"Certainly! I was about to do the post-mortem now, you are welcome to join me."

Holmes smiled. Here was a man with whom he could commune; he cared more about the facts and the evidence than about his personal position.


	6. Chapter 6

I borrowed a surgeons' apron and prepared to assist in the autopsy, though it was Byrnes and Holmes that did most of the investigating. Lestrade glanced nervously at his watch from time to time.

"Feel free to leave us, Lestrade. We shall send for you if we find anything untoward." Holmes dismissed Lestrade with a wave of his hand, and Lestrade seemed glad of it. He was not a squeamish man, but the autopsy of a child is never a pleasant thing to watch.

Byrnes handled the body with great care and concern. He was careful both to preserve any evidence that might be present and to respect the peace of the dead. They both pored over the body.

"About seven years old, possibly a little older?" he enquired of me.

"Yes, agreed," I said.

He produced a magnifying lens, not dissimilar to the one that Holmes used. He looked closely at the boy's now revealed skin in great detail. Holmes listened to his commentary with great interest.

"The fingertips are quite scratched; deeply in some places, obscuring the prints. There is thick mud under the nails, which are raggedly broken, and have bled some time ante-mortem."  
"He was a manual worker of some sort employed by the river," said Holmes.

And so it continued between the men; Byrnes would make a statement of his immediate findings on the body and leave a pause in which Holmes could interject with his reasoning. Byrnes would then continue, listening carefully to Holmes' comments and occasionally adding his own. It was quite fascinating to witness.

"There is some evidence of malnutrition; the eyes are sunken and the ribs most prominent."  
"A pauper."

"He has the scars of several old injuries. His left forearm has been broken at least twice in separate incidents and well set and mended."  
"I have deduced that he has been in the care of someone, though a pauper."  
"His gums show signs of saturnism,"  
"His work involved the use of lead," said Holmes.

Byrnes turned the boy, carefully, onto his front. He grimaced. "Signs of having been flogged, repeatedly, over the course of many years; most recently about three weeks ago?" He again looked to me for confirmation and I looked at the granulation of the wounds and concurred.

"Quite brutal," I remarked.

"Indeed. One of the others showed signs of having been flogged, but nought so severe as this."

Holmes looked closely at the marks.

"Does this link the two cases?" I asked.

"Flogging is a common enough punishment," said Holmes, shaking his head.

We stood back for Byrnes to complete his work. He restarted his commentary after a few minutes.

"Both lungs contain water. Rupturing of blood vessels in the sclera; stomach filled with water; absent of food."

"Classic drowning," I said, and Holmes nodded.

At this point Byrnes carefully looked over the rest of the body and washed himself.

Holmes seemed unsatisfied. "I am missing something."

Byrnes did not seem to understand. "The boy drowned."  
"But why; how did he drown?"  
Byrnes frowned. "I am afraid I cannot say. I do not have nay knowledge of the boy other than of his body here before me, and my remit as a police surgeon allows me to do nothing more than state the cause of death, which was undoubtedly drowning."

Holmes nodded. "You have been most useful, Dr Byrnes. May I take another look?"

"Please do!" said Byrnes. "I would like to hear anything you might have to say about it."

He was genuinely enthusiastic to learn from the great man, and my friend and I both found this refreshing.

Holmes walked around the body. "What is this?" he said, suddenly leaping back to the boy's left hand."

Byrnes and I moved closer to look. Holmes held his glass over the little finger. Tied around it was a small piece of thread.

"I did not notice it," said Byrnes. "Now that you mention it, there was such a tie on one of the other bodies."

"Really," stated Holmes. "This is not commonplace."  
"A reminder of some kind?" offered Byrnes.

"It is tied with two half hitches and is made from thin twine."  
"Our sailor," I said.  
"Well done, Watson."

"It is essential that we see the other bodies," said Holmes.

Byrnes agreed and obliged us.

Indeed, one of the other bodies did have the same tie, with the same knot and the same material. I concurred that they all did drown, water having entered the lungs ante-mortem. Two of them showed signs of lead poisoning.

"We have our link, Dr Watson," said Holmes.

"What of the other two?"  
"It is possible, quite possible, that they are unrelated to this case. But as a group they share various characteristics of one sort or another. They are all male; they show the same lack of nutrition, of metal poisoning, of repaired clothing, of river work and of drowning."  
"Where was this body found?" asked Holmes. I thought it unusual that he had not asked this before, but he was more interested in a physical link between the bodies.

"Wapping," said Byrnes, checking his documentation.

"All from the same stretch of river, at the edge of the Pool of London," said Holmes.

I criticised myself internally for doubting the convictions of my friend that there was something amiss with the deaths of these children. As ever, he was quite correct. Quite what was amiss was to be the next line of enquiry.


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes having made his final inspections, we returned to Lestrade's office. His batman brought us coffee as we discussed the matter.

"I agree, it is certainly worthy of some investigation, if the Yard can rely on your support, Mr Holmes. I have precious few officers available at the best of times, but as you have seen from the condition of our mortuary we are rather busy at the moment," said Lestrade.

Holmes was pleased; Lestrade had effectively given him free reign, and he could count on police support should we need it.

"You will delay the interment of the bodies for now?"

"You are in luck; we have something of a backlog to clear. However I cannot detain them indefinitely. These things have a tendency to spoilage."

Holmes seemed satisfied with that. "Thank you, Lestrade, and good day."

* * *

We caught a Hansom on Northumberland Avenue and headed for Baker Street. Holmes did not speak to me until we had almost reached Marylebone.

"This is quite the problem, Watson."

His voice was grave and his expression stern.

On reaching our rooms, Holmes began to trawl through his cases of documents. It seemed that he was in pursuit of maps of the city either side of the Pool of London, and rolled them out on the floor in his bedroom. I took tea while he crawled over them and circled them like a great bird of prey. He wandered in and out with pieces of scientific glassware. I knew better than to interfere. I contemplated what I knew of the situation, which I realised was little. We sought a sailor who kept the company of young boys, engaged in work about the river, who dealt harsh discipline. We knew not any malicious intent, only that the children had died in similar circumstances. As was so often the case, we were looking for one man in a city of five million. Sailors were far from uncommon in a port city. I could deduce no more about where or how we might find him from the information I had, but Holmes clearly had other thoughts. I knew that he would share them with me when he was ready. However, my thoughts shifted toward what we had done before in a situation where we were seeking a particular individual from the masses; we would call in the Baker Street Irregulars. I realised that doing this would be difficult for Holmes.

* * *

Though difficult to concentrate on it, I busied myself with writing up some of my stories of our previous adventures together. I had some lingering help that reference to the past might help me shed some light on this particular case. It did not, however, and it was early evening before Holmes rolled up his maps, lit a pipe, and sat down smoking most furiously in the chair opposite, cross-legged. I waited to be addressed.

"What do you know of density, Watson?"

"Density?" I am of course, quite aware of the scientific principle, but what this had to do with the situation was beyond me.

"Specifically, the density of the human body."

"I don't know, Holmes."

"Hmmm." He puffed on his pipe.

"I suppose on average it should be about the same as that of water; a man will only just float or only just sink in water."

"As I supposed," said Holmes. "What about a frozen body?"

I could now almost follow his reasoning. "A frozen body should have a lower density."  
"And thus a greater buoyancy."

"Indeed."

"Then it strikes me as a little odd that these bodies were all found so close together. Even if we suppose that all of them entered the water at the same point, the currents of the river should scatter them about some distance. You said also that it was difficult to be specific about a time of death."

"Yes. A body kept very cold will be much better preserved than an ambient one. The signs of how long a body has been dead are much more difficult to read."  
"So the bodies could be farther spaced out in time of death than of discovery."  
"Absolutely."

He pondered for some minutes with his fingers gripping his pipe.

"Have you any more on our sailor?" I asked.

"Only that he is an older man."

"Why do you say that?"

"He is clearly an accomplished sailmaker, a skill which is not very common in the most recent generation of seaman."

This was certainly true.

"How are we to find him?"

"I am sure that we will find him close to the river, between Blackfriars and Limehouse, on one or other side of the river."

My heart sank. That was a colossal area to search. Limehouse particularly was noted for the large numbers of sailors who resided there. Holmes continued.  
"I have made some study of the patterns of currents of the river. Our bodies could not naturally have come from further up the river and have been found where they were. I have also examined some of the mud found on the most recent boy. The mud further downriver than Limehouses and Rotherhithe is quite different. This is city mud of the finest quality."

It was a difficult task but Holmes had managed to shrink a search among five million to perhaps tens of thousands. "How do we find him?" I interjected. "I can hardly imagine that Lestrade's offer of police support extends to Constables questioning every sailor along the riverbank."

"Quite," said Holmes, wryly.

"The Irregulars?" I asked.

"Indeed," said Holmes, more easily than I thought he would.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning Wiggins was sent for, and duly arrived. He seemed so much older now; almost a grown man.

Holmes related to him the events of the previous day. He spoke most sympathetically, and Wiggins appreciated it.

"So we are seeking the sailor, Wiggins. He will be an older man, in his forties or fifties. He will frequent the river banks a mile up or downstream of the Pool. He will have several small boys in his employ, and may be reputed a harsh master."  
"Yes, Sir!"

"Usual rate of pay."  
Wiggins nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait, Wiggins, there is something important I must say."  
"Yes, Sir?"

"Do not approach any man you suspect of being our sailor. Do not go near anyone you see with him, even the children. Do not go about alone, but in pairs, especially after dark. And inform me at once if anyone does not report back to you."

Wiggins smiled. For a fellow with nought but a basic education, he was very astute.  
"You mustn't blame yourself for Pikey, Mr Holmes. Sure as I don't know what actually happened to him, I know he'd have rather been an irregular man than any other sort. He was a workhouse boy, and never knew nothing good until he come out, and a shilling a day made him very happy, Sir. We all know what we do ain't the safest, but there ain't no safety in stone breaking or iron foundering neither."

"Thank you, Wiggins,"

"Regards to comings and goings, Sir, this ain't the Royal Artillery, the lads come and go as they like, Sir."  
"Keep an eye on them, Wiggins."  
"I always do, Sir." He touched his cap and left.

I smiled. I felt that Wiggins had just done my friend a very great service.

* * *

For the next two weeks there was no word on our sailor. Wiggins reported in from time to time, more out of respect for Holmes' nerves than for any real purpose. Holmes went out exploring daily in a variety of guises, but always returned disappointed. I lay a little low for a few days as my wounds had again been bothering me in the cold weather.

"Accompany me, Watson, tonight, for I could use the fellowship." Holmes entered the room dressed as a labourer.

"Yes, all right."  
"You will, of course, have to change."  
"Change?"

"Into something more appropriate."

"I see."

Holmes arranged for me some more modest clothing and a battered hat, and rather helpfully combed my hair back on itself, giving me a look of complete untidiness. I was immediately uncomfortable but in good spirits.

We took a cab to Cheapside and walked together towards the river. It was snowing now, and few folk were about on the street. I was beginning to regret my decision to venture out, for my arm twinged painfully and I tucked my hand into the front of my coat to support it.

There was some activity along the river. A few destitutes were crowded around small fires on the quay. The odd darkened doorway housed a slumped drunk with empty gin bottle still in hand. But here there was no industrial activity to speak of, and this was not a neighbourhood known for sailors. I enquired to Holmes.

"I did not expect to find anything here, Watson. But it is only by searching everywhere that I may establish where he is not, and it is only by finding where he is not that I might find where he is."

I could see his frustration and did not probe further.

Our attention was suddenly taken by one of the most peculiar things I have ever witnessed. As we looked out onto the river, there was a roar and flash about twenty feet in. A great round sun, brightly shining, erupted with the roar from the water. It was as large as a carriage wheel. It leapt eight feet into the air, fell back down, and then vanished from view into the dark water.

I stared speechless at Holmes, who trotted much closer to the quayside to look into the water. I followed, and, just seconds later, the incident was repeated; another glowing orb was expelled from the murky water only to disappear from sight again. As Holmes and I looked at each other there was a scream from behind.

"Lord preserve us! Another one! Another sign! The fires of hell are upon us! Repent your sins! Repent!" A middle aged woman cried out to the unlistening small group.

I was awestruck. I had never seen anything like it. I looked closely at the murky water, perhaps expecting another display. But there was none. Holmes was far more interested in the harassed woman proclaiming her religious fervour.

"There have been other such incidents?" he asked, moving toward her.

"'Tis a sign of the end of days, Sir! The unrepentant shall pay for their crimes!"

"When have you seen this before?"

"There was another, three days ago! And four more before that, Sir! And I went to the church and I tried to warn them! They told me I should stay out of the gin-shop, Sir, but it is they who are the stupefied!"  
Indeed, she wore the blue ribbon on her frock. She fell upon her knees and began to quote from the Book of Isaiah. Again, none of the folk in the locale took much notice.

"Interesting," said Holmes.

It was certainly interesting, and although I did not believe that we were witnessing and act of the Divine casting glowing lights out of the Thames, what we had seen certainly escaped my explanation.

Holmes sat down on the quay with his legs hanging toward the water some six feet below. For a moment I was afraid he would do something rash.

"Holmes!- You would not last one minute in there!"

"I am simply trying to get a better look, Watson."

He was not angry at my reasoning; indeed it was not an unwarranted conclusion as I have seen him do far more dangerous things than leap into a freezing river.

"What do you see?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, irritated.

I groaned; my wounded leg had become so stiff as to no longer adequately take my weight, and the other ached terribly in compensation. I took a sip from my flask.

Holmes looked quite concerned. "Come, Watson. We shall return to Baker Street for the night. I shall resume my searching in the morning, and no doubt we shall read of the sight we here witnessed in the back columns of the London papers."

I leaned on my stick on one side, and the arm of my friend on the other, and walked to the end of Hapsburg Terrace where we took a Hansom back to our rooms.


	9. Chapter 9

A few hours by the fireside did me a great service and I was able to sleep well. Holmes was out when I rose, but as I sat down to breakfast he returned. I could see from his face that this venture had been unsuccessful. He sat in his armchair and began to fill his pipe.  
"Some breakfast, Holmes?" I enquired.

"I am not hungry."

"My dear Holmes, if you are to keep up this constant going about London in the freezing cold, you must permit yourself a little sustenance. My ministrations will be of little use to you if you are frozen!" I tried to be persuasive as he was so often determined to starve himself to avoid wasting nervous energy on digestion. But to my surprise, he put down his pipe and came to join me.

"How is your leg?" he asked, taking tea and eggs.

"Much recovered for the warm," I said. As well as being snug in our rooms with the roaring fire provided by Mrs Hudson, it was a much brighter day outside, with a tinge of the spring despite the sun being so low in the sky. "Are you to scour the riverbanks for sailors once more today?"  
"Indeed."

There seemed little else to say.

* * *

We both enjoyed a cigarette after breakfast, and were interrupted by Mrs Hudson, carrying a telegram.

Holmes bounded over the back of the chaise to reach it. Mrs Hudson remained, slightly interested.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson!" said Holmes, and almost bodily ushered her out of the room as he opened it.

"What is it Holmes?" I asked, as the look on face told me the matter was pressing.

He flung the telegram at me and ran off to his room, scrambling for his hat and coat. I read it.

_MR Holmes_

_Meet at Scotland Yard_

_We have another_

_Lestrade _

I extinguished my cigarette and, snatching my own hat and coat, followed Holmes into Baker Street for a cab.

Holmes muttered to himself with his fingers pressed together against his chin. I could not make out the whole of what he was saying, but he seemed to be verbally mulling over all the information he had gathered so far, as well as remonstrating with himself for having so far failed to prevent further loss of life. I did not interrupt him.

As we passed the river, I looked upon it, as did Holmes, perhaps in anticipation of it turning up some clue. All I could notice of it was that the water level was unusually low; the neap tide. There were some folk climbing up and down from the quaysides. Though it was a dying trade, these poor folk were the mudlarks. I felt a great sympathy for them, for they were the lowest class of working folk, down with the toshers and grubbers. They were often women and children. They would comb the mud flats revealed by the ebbing Thames for anything of value that could be sold or used. A neap tide strengthened their numbers as more of the shore was revealed by the great river. These people scoured the fetid, stinking river silt, no doubt home to every class of disease, risking drowning, hypothermia and being swept many miles downriver in an instant, for many hours a day, all in the hope of finding a penny or enough lead to sell to a merchant. For this they might get a loaf or a pint of beer, or perhaps a rag soaked in gin. I thought that God forbid I should ever have found myself in such a situation, I should have gone to the workhouse.

"Mudlarks," I said, audibly enough for Holmes to stop muttering. He shot me a look.

"The children are mudlarks." I was speaking more for the benefit of my own thoughts than for communication.

"Indeed," said Holmes, and resumed his previous occupation. He seemed irritated that I had made so obvious a statement. "There are few other occupations which might have drawn them in such numbers to the river and affected them all with drowning."

* * *

We hurried in to the pathology office where Lestrade met us with Patterson, who was again the duty surgeon. I was glad indeed; this man seemed to be open to Holmes' deductive skills.

"Gentlemen," said Patterson, seriously.

We were led through into the same examining room we used the last time we visited the Yard. Lestrade assumed his hawk-like watch of proceedings from the edge of the room.

"This is a much more foul thing, Mr Holmes; Dr Watson. Much more."

Patterson revealed the body to us. Again it was a thin, wispy boy of between seven and nine, in the clothes of a pauper. This was rather different that the others. The boy had a millstone slung over his shoulder like a satchel, tied with rope.

"Good God!" said I, horrified, for the boy also had severe damage to his face. His lower jaw was obviously broken, and his whole face was covered in a red stain. Two large shards of what appeared to be glass were pushes into his cheeks. It was a horrifying sight.

"Where was he found?" asked Holmes.

"Bermondsey, Mr Holmes. At the low tide the water drew back and revealed him, lying on the bottom in the mud," said Lestrade.

"May I?" asked Holmes.

"Please!" said Patterson, and stood back with a wave of his arm.  
Holmes took of his jacket and circled the table. He checked first the fingers and pointed out the tied string to the little finger with the now familiar sailor's knot. He carefully examined the child's clothes. Inside his jacket was sewn a small label;

_Property of the Poplar Workhouse Infirmary_

Similar was discovered inside his cap, also pierced by one of the shards of glass. Under his clothes the boy bore scars of lashes. He also had a deep mark in his shoulder.

"There is some foul villainy afoot here, Mr Holmes."  
"Yes, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Most foul."  
"I take it you have not found your sailor."  
"I have not."  
"I have despatched your description to the beat officers, and they are instructed also to look for him." Lestrade lingered over the word 'description.' As much as Holmes was keen to unravel a mystery, Lestrade hungered to see guilty men in the hands of the law, and grew impatient. However, he was pursuing his case as best he could and knew that the matter would stand a greater chance of being resolved under the auspices of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Patterson's examination revealed that the boy had drowned, and Holmes examined the mouth of the child and found him also to be suffering from saturnism. He had clearly been engaged with my medical texts once again.

"So, it is clear that this child was murdered," pronounced Lestrade.

"How so?" said Holmes.

Lestrade looked at him in wonderment that he could ask such a question.

"By being thrown into the river tied to a millstone!" said Lestrade.

Holmes sighed. "Why the facial injuries?"  
"Some cruel depravity, no doubt," offered Lestrade.

I waited eagerly for Holmes' findings.

The boy was not pushed into the river. He did certainly enter it. Whether or not he did this of his own volition is not clear. The mark on his shoulder corresponds to the rope on the millstone; he has clearly been accustomed to carrying it for some time. He was alive when he entered the water. Also note the way the stone is attached. It could very easily have slipped off. It is slung in such a way as to make it comfortable to wear. One who wished to dispose of the child would not have gone to so much trouble. His clothes have been mended by the sailor, and it seems that either he or an acquaintance is a former ward of the workhouse in Poplar. His finding at Bermondsey is significant. We shall find our man thereabouts, Lestrade."  
"How can you be sure?"

"I believe that this is the fate of all the children. They are mudlarks employed at or near Bermondsey. The others drowned, and either were without millstones or shed them in the water. This one was held down by his. I do not doubt that if the neap tide had not been so timely that we might never have found him before he sunk into the mud."

"And the face?" asked Lestrade, seemingly convinced.

"About that I am not sure. May I take one of the pieces?"

Lestrade looked to Patterson, who nodded. "Be sure to return it," he said.

Holmes grimaced. "Of course."

We retired once again to Baker Street. The South Bank at Bermondsey was very densely populated, and we were still looking among tens of thousands. Holmes felt that the investigation of the glass was more pressing.


	10. Chapter 10

On our return to our rooms, Holmes sat cross legged in his armchair, staring at the piece of glass in his hand, smoking. He looked at it so intently I wondered if it might come to life. After finishing his cigarette he leapt from the chair, and ran into his bedroom. He then began crashing around and the familiar scrape and clatter of glassware spewed forth. This was followed after two or three minutes by clouds of thick, acrid smoke.

"Holmes! What on Earth are you doing?" I called.

Holmes did not reply, but staggered from the room, closing the door behind him. He coughed and spluttered.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Yes, quite right, Watson."

His eyes were bright indeed for a man filled with fumes.

"I trust there is a purpose to filling our rooms with noxious vapours?" I asked, irritated. I opened the window, which while it did release the smoke, also allowed in the frigid winter air.

"Come," said Holmes.

We went back into the room. Holmes had opened this window also, and the fumes had now disappeared. There lingered a burning smell, and I covered my face with my handkerchief. Holmes did not seem to mind. He fetched a Petri dish for me to examine. It contained some of the pieces of glass from Scotland Yard, and a pool of viscous liquid.

"It is not glass, Watson. It is a most remarkable substance."

"What is it?"

"I am not certain. But surely it is not glass. It is sharp, transparent and shatters much as glass does. But it melts after only a few minutes over a flame, and burns shortly thereafter, producing thick smoke. When it cools, it reforms into a plain shape."

Sure enough, the viscous liquid began to harden before our eyes in the dish, forming a thin film. After a few minutes, Holmes removed it with a pair of fine tongs.

"Amazing," I said, for the material was now almost a perfect replica of the dish. Still liquid in parts, it began to drip and Holmes replaced it in the dish.

"I wonder," said Holmes. "Stand back, Watson."

Before I could enquire as to what he was doing, he drew a long taper from the table, lit it, and held it over the dish of liquid. It was all I could do to avoid falling over as the concoction exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Lord above!" I swore. "Do you mean to frighten me to death?"

Holmes look of interest gave way to one of shame. "My apologies, Watson. I was very inconsiderate." Despite his look, he spoke with little sincerity.

I brushed small pieces of Petri dish from my clothes and went to the other room for a glass of brandy.

"Good gracious! Whatever is going on?" Mrs Hudson ran, flustered, into the room.  
"Mr Holmes is, experimenting," I said, my heart still fluttering.

"I was thinking that someone had fired a cannonade!" she squealed. "Mr Holmes, I would be most appreciative if you would inform me in future of any explosions that are likely to take place!"

Holmes ignored her, looking at the remnants of the material.

"Good day, Doctor!" said Mrs Hudson, and left smartly, wafting the air in front of her nose.

Our long suffering landlady was well used to both explosions and other violent outbursts of chemistry on the part of Sherlock Holmes.

"This is a most potent explosive!" said Holmes.

"Marvellous, Holmes," I said with false emphasis. "How does this help our situation?"

He did not answer, and instead regarded one of the other pieces of material. "Not flat, but curved, as if part of a sphere," said Holmes, quietly. "About two feet in diameter, perhaps less, eighteen inches. Yes." He measured the curvature with a rule.

He then whipped himself once more into a frenzy, pulling up piles of debris from around the room, and emerged with a notepad and pencil. He approached me, scribbling. He then handed me the pad.

Upon it was drawn a picture of a glass bowl, as one might keep fish.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

He disappeared again and emerged with a tarred wooden box, full of papers. He tipped it out onto the floor, and the resulting tide caused me to stumble back. The pain in my leg returned with a vengeance.

Holmes went into the bathroom, and immediately out again. "Not deep enough!" said Holmes, excited. He took his box under arm, stuffed a blanket into it, grabbed his hat and coat and ran for the front door. I managed to put on mine in time to hear him yell, 'cab!' at street level. I hurried after him and joined him in the Hansom.

"Where are we going, Holmes?" I breathed, for I had been caught unprepared for the excitement.

"Lancaster Gate!" shouted Holmes, to the driver and to inform myself, and we set off.

"What on Earth for?" I asked, confused.

"An experiment," replied my friend. His gaze told me he would reveal no more.

* * *

The drive was short, and I was filled with nerves as we reached the North end of Hyde Park by the church at Lancaster gate. The air was once again very frigid indeed, and I limped after Holmes as he walked at some speed into the park. The beginnings of a snowfall commenced, with the tiny white wisps sticking to my overcoat, making it appear grey. We stopped at the Northern tip of the Serpentine, where small boats were moored to a pier that extended out into the water. It was frozen at the edges of the lake, but the boats were free of ice. I assumed we were going for a row for some reason. Holmes was a little ahead of me, and I could see him speaking to the young boat attendant. There were no others around; the cold weather would drive all but the most determined of pleasure boaters from the water.

The young man passed something to Holmes, and Holmes in turn handed over his coat. As I drew closer I could see that the item in question was an anchor, and drew in a sharp breath as I realised in horror what Holmes was about to do. I hurried to the end of the pier, but I was too late.


	11. Chapter 11

"Holmes!" I cried. The water was dark and I could not make out the person who was now well beneath the surface. The water rippled around the point he had jumped in, and all I could see was my own reflection, and that of the boy.

"Why did you let him jump in?" I asked, angrily.  
"I didn't know he was going to jump in, Sir! He says a shilling if he can borrow this old anchor is all, and would I mind holding his coat and that!"

My mind raced; I was sure Holmes had a sound scientific reason for throwing himself into the Serpentine in the dead of winter, but surely this was suicide. I am no swimmer, and in any case would be unable to locate my friend in the lake.

"Holmes! Good God!" I cried and sunk my hands below the surface as if to reach for him. "Get help, boy!" I shouted at the young man.  
"Who from, Sir?" he asked, now as panicked as was I.

I glared at him; I did not know the area well. "Find a Constable!"

He ran off.

I yearned to jump in after him but my head won rule over my heart and I remained on the pier. My cries of my friend's name faded to a mere whisper as the minutes went on. By the time the youth returned with not one, but two Constables, I was sitting on the edge of the pier staring into the water.

"How long has he been down there, Sir?"

"Five or six minutes," I replied, sadly. I stared as the wind whipped at the surface.

"We'll not find him now, Sir."

"Suicide," said the other officer.  
I wanted to correct him but could find neither words nor reason. But I was about to receive my second serious shock of the hour.

Six feet from the end of the pier, a black box suddenly popped, cork-like, to the surface. Following it was a flurry of water, and the flapping of cloth.

"Holmes!" I cried. The two Constables, as surprised as I, helped me drag Holmes out by the shoulders. He was ashen, with a blue tinge to the lips and eyelids, and could only speak in a whisper.

I realised part of his plan, and took the blanket from the edge where the boy had placed it on Holmes' coat. I wrapped him in it.  
"Watson-" he began.  
We tried to pull him to his feet but he could not stand on his own. I threw his coat around him atop the blanket and I held him up with one of the policemen. We made to walk him back to Lancaster gate. I reached for my brandy flask.

"Wait!" whispered Holmes. He reached into his sodden waistcoat pocket and produced a crown. He handed it to the boy.

"I am afraid I lost your anchor."

The boy stood stunned as we led Holmes away. We hailed a Hansom.

The cabbie was dismayed at Holmes wet state. The journey was a short one, and for it I paid six shillings.

* * *

I almost had to carry him up the stairs at our rooms.

"Gracious!" cried Mrs Hudson on seeing the frigid Holmes. "Whatever is the matter?"  
"Mr Holmes decided to go for a swim," I said, angry and concerned.

"Good Lord!"

"Would you kindly stoke up the fire and fill some hot water bottles? He is suffering somewhat from hypothermia."

Mrs Hudson did as she was asked, going to fetch wood and bottles. As I got him to the stop of the stairs, we both fell in through the door. Holmes lay with his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. I groaned as I felt the warm stab in my leg return. I dragged the chaise closer to the fire and laid Holmes upon it. Placing all delicacies aside, I had to remove his clothes. It is extremely difficult to undress a wet, semi-conscious man.

When my task was complete I wrapped him in blankets and put my flask to his lips. He rallied a little and the blue tinge faded from his face. His eyes opened.

"What in the devil's name were you thinking, Holmes?" I exclaimed.

He muttered and I slapped his face. "Wake up!"

Mrs Hudson entered with the hot water bottles and I placed them about the bundle. The wood added to the fire burned with a more fierce flame and it was soon very hot close to it. Holmes colour began to return. I checked his pulse and watched him keenly for almost an hour. Finally, he regained enough composure to speak once more.

I was stricken with both relief and rage. "Why, Holmes?"  
"Thank you, Watson. Without you I do not think I should have made it to safety."

"You almost left me behind, both here and at the water!"  
"I was afraid you might try and stop me."  
"Indeed I would have if I had known for an instant what you meant to do!"  
"I feared as much." Holmes coughed his sentence out. I fed him a little more brandy.

"Did you inhale water?" I asked.

"No. There was a great pressure on my chest."  
"How deep did you go?"  
"To the bottom."

I was surprised. The Serpentine is not deep, but it is certainly deep enough to cause great discomfort.

"I needed to perform a vital experiment."  
"On yourself?"  
"On the box."

"The box?"  
"You recall the glowing orbs we saw at Cheapside?"  
"Indeed."

"The material we found was part of a sphere with a hole in."  
"Yes."  
"It is a helmet of sorts. It is possible to go into the water, and when weighed down, sink all the way to the bottom. Enough air can be held in a pocket in the helmet to allow the wearer to breathe for some minutes. I imagine it is more useful in the summer months. The cold water made it extremely difficult to breathe in and out."  
"I see." My ire gave way more to sympathy and intrigue.

"The box made the atmosphere quite dark, but a transparent orb would give a much better view, if only of a foot or so. It might even be possible to contain a light within, though that would make the reflection bothersome. On letting go of the weight, one does pop rightly to the surface. This is most useful, for after a few minutes the air inside the box becomes thin and sour."

"The glowing orbs were helmets?"

"Indeed. It was difficult at lower depths to keep hold of the box, as the water tried to snatch it back to the surface. If I had let it go, it should have come quite violently to the surface. Given sufficient depths as in the river, surely the orb would crush. The box became quite bent, and though the dome is a stronger shape, it too would have a pressure beyond which it could not remain intact. If indeed a light were contained inside as we saw, it might melt the material. Once melted even a little, it would become extremely flammable and explosive."

I realised that what we hade seen may well have been the departure of these helmets form the heads of small boys whilst they were underwater.

"The shards in the boy's face probably came from an imploding or exploding orb," I said.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "We must go to Bermondsey at once!"  
"You are not going anywhere for now, Holmes. You shall be lucky not to catch the pneumonia. I shall send for Lestrade."


	12. Chapter 12

Holmes warmed admirably as we waited for Lestrade. He dressed again and prepared to go out, despite my protests. We were waiting for an hour and the beat of his heart and the strength of his voice allayed some of my fears. Once again, he was fortunate indeed to have survived his self-inflicted experiments.

"That will be Lestrade," said Holmes, looking out of the window.  
I saw nothing, but was too much in anticipation of events to enquire after what must have been, for Holmes, another piece of cunning deduction.

Lestrade arrived with two Constables and snowflakes clinging to his hat.

"I trust there is news, gentlemen?" he asked as he came in, leaving his men downstairs.

"Indeed, Lestrade," said Holmes.

"Are you quite well, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes was still quite white, even compared to his usual pale complexion.

"Indeed. We are to go to Bermondsey at once. I am confident we shall be able to track down our sailor."  
"I have a four-wheeler outside," said Lestrade. "But I do not understand, Mr Holmes."  
"All will become plain," said Holmes. "But we must hurry."

There was enough room in the four wheeler for four, and one of the officers climbed up beside the driver. It took us to Shad Thames on the South Bank, which, even as afternoon gave way to evening was a hive of activity. We walked towards the quayside and along the river, past beggars, entertainers, drunkards, sellers and grubbers, almost knocking into people at all sides. Many made way for us as soon as they saw we were accompanied by policemen.

"Where are we going, Holmes?" I asked.  
"I shall know when I see it," said Holmes.

* * *

We walked for about half a mile along the river front, and the light faded as we did so. It was slow progress; Holmes look intently at almost every person and structure we passed, and stopped often to take refreshment from his flask. Traders and beggars alike in the fading light and cold weather retreated from the streets about us. The streets were almost empty as we approached the esplanade by the Bermondsey wall on the West side of St. Saviour's Dock. Here were warehouses filled with the stuffs imported by the great ships of the pool of London. Mills and factories extended along all the approaches to the dock, and squeezed between, below, above and about were the crammed rookeries of the people that worked them. The smells of fine spices and malted grain mixed with those of There were no gas lights here, and the tall buildings along with the rapid onset of night made navigation difficult. Lestrade' men had lanterns and held them aloft. It became eerily quiet.

On the edge of the quay where the Dock met the river, a lone figure sat looking down at the water. We approached, Holmes and I, and my friend bade Lestrade and his men to wait.

"Wiggins?" asked Holmes.

I was surprised. Not only had I not expected to find Wiggins here, but I had no idea how Holmes could have recognised him from such a distance in the dark.

Wiggins stood up in a start, and was so surprised that Holmes grabbed him by the arm to prevent his falling into the dock. Wiggins recoiled from him.

"Mr Holmes!" he cried.

"It is all right, Wiggins."

Wiggins did not speak, but breathed rapidly as Holmes beckoned him away from the edge.

"What are you doing here, Wiggins?" I asked. "Have you found the sailor?"

Wiggins did not answer, but looked toward the other side of the dock. Holmes followed his gaze. On the other side we could just make out the light of glowing orbs descending the quay into the river.

"Good Lord!" I said. I was surprised, relieved, and much confused. "How long have you known about this?" I asked.

Again, Wiggins did not respond.

"For some time, Watson." Holmes voice cracked. "This is the reason why the Irregulars have not reported any news of the sailor."  
"I am not sure I follow you, Holmes."  
"They are protecting him."  
I looked at Wiggins, and felt anger towards him. He was still a child, but a savvy one, and I could not comprehend why he would want to defend a criminal that had taken one of his own. When he had met us at Baker Street and been despatched on his latest mission, he gave no sign that he might have known anything about the matter. Perhaps even then he was aware of the situation? If so, he was a talented actor. I suspected the worst.

"Why would you try to protect a murderer from us, Wiggins? From the police? Are Mr Holmes' rates not equal to those of this man?"

The boy's eyes met mine with a rage I have seen only in war.

"I'll not say, Dr Watson, Sir! I'll not give him up! If it sees me to my grave I won't!" his eyes filled with tears and he clenched his fists.

"Why not, Wiggins?" asked Holmes, much more sympathetically than I.

"I won't say, Mr Holmes!" he sobbed.

"Wiggins, we now know where he is, and exactly the circumstances of the death of those children. We shall have him Wiggins, whatever happens. But you would do me the greatest service if you can explain to me why you have been hindering my efforts, and why you are protecting a man who has killed one of your own."

"All my own, Sir. All."  
"I do not follow."  
"They was all Irregulars, Sir! They was all working for you in some form or another, at some time.

Holmes face fell. It was true that we did not always know the names or even the faces of some of the boys who did the important legwork of some of Holmes' operations.

Wiggins' anger grew. "It's all right for you! In your grand house. We was all grateful to you, Mr Holmes, and you were good to us. But your work ain't regular and some of us have no lodgings or food in our bellies the rest of the time. Boys, they'll rob each other, and push each other down to be the one who gets the guinea. And some of them'll be straight down the gin-shop with it too. We've to get by. It's all right for me. I can read and write, Mr Holmes; scripture and everything. And I can turn wood as my father taught me before he died. But some of them, sir, they can't count nor anything. We have to get by. And I keep an eye on them, Sir, like I said."  
"I understand," said Holmes.  
I was moved by the boy's speech, and I could see that Holmes was also.

"They goes into the river as they wants to. Nobody makes them go!"  
"What are they doing?" I asked.

"They are mudlarking on a grand scale, Watson. With those orbs as helmets they can go to the river bed even at high tide, even to points never normally revealed by the tide at all. There are much richer pickings to be had in the river than at the edge."

I was horrified. Mularking was a dangerous, filthy job anyway, but this was extreme.

"They find bits of ships and all sorts in their, Mr Holmes. And they get a pretty penny for it. The boatswain is always sure that you get paid for what you find."  
I still was not sure of the full story. But I felt that we might be running out of time for the rest of the boys.

"Lestrade!" I shouted. "We must hurry to the East side!"


	13. Chapter 13

We ran around to the other side

We ran around to the other side. I was the last to arrive on the scene, and when I did, there stood Lestrade holding two great orbs, with candles in the bottom, and the two policemen had each hold of a young boy, by the shoulders. Both were protesting and kicking at their shins.

"Lestrade! Put those down!" shouted Holmes.

"What?" said Lestrade.

"Holmes crossed to him in a flash, and blew out both candles before setting them to the ground.

"The material is quite explosive, Lestrade."

"I cannot imagine the exploding of a piece of glass," said Lestrade.

"Nor can I, but glass it is not," said Holmes.  
"What is it then?"

"I am not certain," said Holmes.  
"It is Parkesine, gentlemen," said a man whose head emerged from the platform at the bottom of the quay."  
"Indeed," said Holmes.

"Holmes?" I enquired.

"I believe it is a new type of material; a synthetic ivory that can be made to be transparent," said Holmes.

"Indeed," said the man, who now joined us on the quay. "May I ask what you want? And please unhand my boys." He was quite grey, and had a seaman's beard and wore ship's boots.  
Lestrade shook his head. "I am afraid I shall have to arrest you."

"You can't take the boatswain!" said one of the boys, kicking at the policeman, who winced.

"I have committed no crime," said the old man. "What is the charge?" He spoke with great confidence, as if well used to dealing with the police. "Sam? What are you doing here?"  
Wiggins spoke. "I didn't bring them, Sir, I didn't!"

I did not even know Wiggins' first name.

"I know, Sam. Do not worry. Now again, Sirs, what is the charge?"

"Murder!" piped Lestrade.

"I have murdered no-one."

Lestrade looked at Holmes.

"Indeed, I believe he has not."

A boy's voice echoed up from the same platform that the man had risen from.

"Time!" he cried. The boatswain leaned over the edge and pulled sharply at a small string tied to one of the mooring rings.

Almost at once two large orbs emerged from the surface of the water, and the man and his boy began hauling on a rope. Two millstones were thus dragged out onto the quay, and two boys emerged, soaking. Each was carrying a length of pipe. The boatswain wrapped them in blankets.

"Come with me, gentlemen, I shall make no attempt to escape."

He spoke with immense confidence, and whether it was this, the cold or a genuine interest, we followed the boatswain and his boys to a nearby storehouse. The fellow limped on both his legs which led him to walk as if he were dancing; his heels did not fully touch the ground. Wiggins, cold and silent, followed also.

* * *

Inside we the man was greeted as a father by a son, by around twelve other young boys, and one or two a little older; perhaps thirteen or fourteen. They gathered around the two freezing, wet lads, and hurried them over to a roaring fire.

"Brandy and bread for today's grafters!" said the boatswain.

"What did you get?" asked one of the boys.

"Lead! And plenty of it!" said one of the frozen through chattering teeth.

"Great! How much?" Several of the boys enquired after the old man.

"I should say a florin for the two," he said.

"A shilling each!" The boys were elated; even those who had found no lead seemed to be celebrating.

"What is going on here, Mr-?" Lestrade asked of the man.

"My name is Conroy. They call me the boatswain."

"A sailor, of some experience, though it is some years since you have put to sea." said Holmes.

"Indeed."

"Merchant fleet?"

"Indeed." Conroy was interested, and waited for Holmes to provide him with more details about his own life.

"Travel to Australia?"  
"How could you know this?" he asked, smiling.

"Your hand," said Holmes.

The man held up his hand, which seemed to be tinged with green and black flecks.

"An aboriginal design," said Holmes. "This was done by a tribesman in the colony. I observe that you must have been at least once to Australia, and it would be an unusual thing in the merchant fleet to make only one scheduled journey. Therefore you have been several times. And you have not been at sea for some time; the colour and state of your complexion and beard are not those of a man recently returned from sea. Your skill with the needle and thread tells me that you are a skilled sailmaker, a talent no longer sought by our great fleet."  
"You are an astute man, Sir," he said, sitting down in a low armchair. He began to remove his boots. "You must forgive me; I am troubled by my feet."

"The manner in which you walk suggests that you have suffered an injury, some time ago. Perhaps it is this which has kept you on dry land."

The man finished taking off his footwear. It revealed that he had no toes, and the skin was gnarled and twisted, as having been severely burned.

"My last ship was called the Bospatrick."

"Good Lord! I did not know there had been any survivors." I was surprised; this was a famous vessel, for all the wrong reasons.

"Survival is an unusual word for it, Sir."

* * *

The Bospatrick was a Blackwall Frigate bound for New Zealand. It was destroyed 15 years ago by fire off the Cape of Good Hope. The survivors were found drifted over 500 miles away, ten days later. This poor creature must have lived, horribly burned, at the mercy of the seas for ten days. Even now, the condition of his wounds must have been agonising. I felt a great sorrow for him. But I also recalled that the fire was reportedly started in the boatswain's store, and that many of the crew were carrying family members with them.

* * *

"You know of my old ship, I see," said Conroy, seeing recognition in Holmes' eyes. "Nought for a crippled sailor, robbed of his family and accused of a crime, wrongly I might add, but to become a beggar. So in London I have made a life for myself."

Lestrade interjected. "You have not explained yourself, Mr Conroy. You must accompany me."  
Holmes shot him an accusing look. He did not appreciate being interrupted, and Lestrade seemed to heed him. Conroy continued.

"I have found it difficult to make ends meet, but have always found some employment or other. But in the last couple of years I have found it more and more difficult to work for myself. And I saw some street Arabs loose with no watcher, and hungry, and I took them in. They were the mudlarks, not I. They gave me the thought. Climbing into rivers is well beyond me, though I'd go if I could. But I know the metals, I know where to find them and I know where to sell them."  
"You are responsible for the deaths of five children, Conroy!" said Lestrade.

"I'm not responsible for anything. I puts a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. I make sure they get a fair price for what they find. If they need healing, I heal them. I keep them warm and dry. I teach them the scriptures on Sundays. If it weren't for me there'd be more than five of them dead."

I was still angry with the man but I could not help thinking that he was probably right.


End file.
